


Equine Nine

by McG



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Getting Together, Horses, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2019-11-14 13:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18053759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McG/pseuds/McG
Summary: James Hathaway is a professional event rider with his own yard. But his private personality and prickly manner have made it difficult for him to keep a yard manager and trainer.Robbie Lewis has been working with breeding horses in Iceland, needing to get away after the death of his wife. But he wants to come back to the UK, and he needs a job.Together they make a go of building up the yard together, and try to succeed in the horse world.(i.e. I wrote a horse AU).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> iloveyoudie shared the prompt "We're both in professional showjumping and you're an arrogant ass but i really love your horse" AU. 
> 
> Much discussion ensued, and it rather gained a life of its own... 
> 
> And as Greenapricot pointed out: "If James is riding horses in some professional capacity he’d have those tight trousers and tall boots wouldn’t he?"

Robbie shouldered his rucksack and stooped to grab the large holdall as the taxi drove off. It felt odd to be back in the UK after two years away, but after the death of his wife, Val, he’d needed the time out. It had taken him a while to acknowledge it, and after nearly a year of hard drinking and grieving, his old mentor Strange had come and had a quiet word. 

Once one of the best grooms and trainers in the business, Robbie hadn’t been coping. He’d lost most of his clients and was on the fast track to an early grave. But Strange had found work for him: a stud yard in Iceland who were in urgent need of someone experienced in breaking in young horses. It was the perfect match. Strange had even managed to make it seem like Robbie would be doing them a favour. Though Robbie was in no doubt that Strange had been working his contacts all through the horse world to find someone to take him on. 

But it was only ever going to be a temporary position. Part of his remit was getting the young staff trained up so that they could do the job themselves. It was a family stud, and they were keen to keep it that way. 

Strange had retired from the equine circuit while he was away, and had sold his yard on as a going concern to Jean Innocent, the one-time Olympic hopeful who had cut her teeth training three day eventers. Once she’d decided she was ready for a yard of her own, she was a natural choice to take over from Strange. But given her experience there was no room for Robbie in her outfit. 

She’d been sympathetic, nonetheless, and offered to ask around for him. 

Which left him here. Standing in a quiet lane at 6am, the sky just barely getting light, scarf wrapped tight against the morning chill, and staring at a gate. The plaque on the stone gatepost proclaimed it as Cambridge Farm, which seemed a little eccentric in the middle of rural Gloucestershire. 

The new owner, James Hathaway, was in desperate need of a trainer and yard manager apparently. The last one had left in short order, as had the one before that. Innocent hadn’t elaborated much, and Robbie wasn’t in a position to be choosy. 

He would be employed full time, rather than freelance as he was before. The salary was decent enough, and the job came with accommodation for him and stabling for his own horse, once he’d been flown over from Iceland. That was a bold move, as once they've left, horses were never allowed to return to Iceland. Still, Robbie was looking forward to being reunited with him. 

Robbie managed to negotiate opening the gate with his luggage and was just closing it after him when he saw his new employer for the first time. 

Or rather heard, then saw him. 

“Bloody, fucking, arsing shitbag! I know you did that on purpose you absolute dickhead!” 

Robbie turned to the source of the noise, a tall blonde man in his late 20s, wearing burgundy jodhpurs and a navy softshell jacket. Though both were absolutely caked in mud all up the man’s right hand side. In one hand he held his riding hat, similarly muddy, dangling from the chin strap, and what looked like a whip snapped clean in two. The other hand held the reins of a large skewbald horse, also sporting a muddy patch on his offside shoulder and to whom the man was ranting and swearing, clearly having had a fall, if the mud and the limp were anything to go by. 

Robbie stepped forward to introduce himself when the man caught sight of him. 

“Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded of Robbie, even as he opened the door of one of the large wooden loose-boxes and shoved the horse inside, still muttering threats at it as it stomped and tossed its head at him. 

“Robbie Lewis. I’m the new head trainer? Are you Mr Hathaway?” 

The man, Mr Hathaway, give a quick nod to acknowledge his identity. He stared at Robbie for a moment looking nonplussed. 

“Had a fall, did you?” Robbie asked, when the silence grew uncomfortably long. 

“Bloody detective as well are you?” James asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. The horse took the opportunity to stick its head out over the stable door and try to bite James’s hair. James wheeled round, angry finger pointing in the horse’s long face. 

“Don’t you fucking dare!” he turned back to Robbie, stepping out of reach of the horse as he did so, “You can start straight away. Meet Rex. He’s a bad tempered arsehole who thinks he’s boss. He needs untacked and rugged. Come into the house when you’re done. Good luck.” 

With that, James stomped off across the yard, still limping, to the large stone farmhouse. 

“Right then.” Robbie said out loud. “Let’s get you sorted out, Rex my lad. I’m sure you can’t be any grumpier than your owner seems to be!” 

\---

He'd managed to locate the tack room without any trouble, luckily the door was unlocked. The saddle racks and bridle pegs were helpfully labelled. Rex's stable rug was already hanging over the door of the loose box, but Robbie took a gamble that one of the cooler sheets on the stack of clean rugs in the tack room was fair game. There wasn’t much chance of getting the mud off before it dried, unless he fancied hosing down the big horse, which with an unknown horse on a cool morning seemed a little overambitious. Still, the lightweight cooler rug was designed to wick the moisture away and help the horse to dry quickly and not to get cold while doing so. 

Plus it was smaller and lighter than the stable rug, so it would be easier to wash if the dried mud wouldn't brush off later. 

The grooming kit and headcollars had been similarly obvious, and so Robbie had helped himself to everything he needed.

Rex had indeed proved to be a bit of a trying horse, pretending to bite at Robbie as he worked around him in the stable. But he'd quietened down when Robbie had given him a glare and a gentle shove and generally taken no notice of the horse's threats. Tied up to the ring in his stable, he happily munched away on his haynet while Robbie brushed him. 

Robbie was just finishing picking Rex's feet when he became aware that the odd noises outside were the sound of a vehicle parking in the yard and someone getting out. 

Footsteps approached the stable, and Robbie straightened up, rubbing at his lower back with one hand. 

"Robbie Lewis, as I live and breathe!" 

The new arrival, a blonde woman of around 40, wearing a fleece zipped up under her chin to ward off the early morning chill, leaned against the stable door, grinning at Robbie. 

"Laura Hobson, how the devil are you?" Robbie asked, stepping closer to kiss Laura on both cheeks. "You haven't aged a day. Are you well?"

"Never mind all that," she flapped a hand in dismissal, "I didn't know you were back! Don't tell me you're Hathaway's latest trainer?" 

"Guilty as charged. I started all of, ooh, 20 minutes ago? Pretty much came straight here from the airport." 

"Well, hopefully you'll last a little longer than the others."

"Oh?" Robbie asked, probing for more information. 

"Well he's only had the farm for four months, and you're the third person to take the job. The first one, a old hand by the name of Hooper. Was based somewhere is south Oxfordshire before, apparently. Came highly recommended, lasted less than a week. Do you know Gurdip? The farrier? He says he heard them having a screaming row when he was here shoeing this big lump. No idea what about. Then a couple of weeks later he makes an offer to Ali McLennan."

"Apprentice groom at Knox's place?" 

"Yeah, that's her. She was a bit inexperienced compared to Hooper and, well, you. But Hathaway seemed happy enough to employ her. She lasted about six weeks or so, and then just upped and left. No one knows why. There's a rumour halfway round the village that she robbed the place and did a moonlight flit, but god knows who started that one. Hathaway won't say anything about it. Alex at the feed merchant reckons they had an affair and she dumped him, but I'm not sure she was his type, if you get my meaning."

"Blimey. Good to see you're still the fountain of knowledge for half the county anyway."

Laura grinned cheekily. 

"Spend your life endlessly touring all the yards within a 40 mile radius and you pick up one or two things."

"So what's he like then, Hathaway?"

Laura twisted her face, and looked thoughtful before speaking. 

"Quiet type. Keeps himself to himself. Been spotted in the village shop a few times, but doesn't drink in the pub. Smoker. By all accounts he's got a hell of a temper."

"Aye well I've seen that this morning. This big brute chucked him off this morning it seems." Robbie gave Rex a friendly pat, "He was effing and blinding at him when I got here." 

"I've only been here a handful of times," Laura told him, "he's always been perfectly polite to me. A bit standoffish, but I've had no problems. I heard he's an experienced breeder and trainer in his own right. He started making waves on the competition scene not long after you left for Iceland. No one seems sure where he was before that. But apparently he used to compete in affiliated eventing when he was a teenager."

"I googled him - is that how you say it?"

"Yes," Laura confirmed, laughing. 

"And there's prize listings for him from about 10 or 15 years ago, all around the south west. Then nothing, until a bit in the local rag saying he was buying this place."

Laura shrugged to demonstrate her lack of insight. 

"He's managed here by himself all winter, but I know he's keen to expand. He's been competing mainly with his mare, but he bought this brute just before Christmas to get competition ready for this season. He's been putting off further expansion until he's got a good trainer in place though. Which I guess is where you come in."

"Enter stage left. Odd that he wasn't bothered about interviewing me beforehand. We only chatted on the phone a couple of times. He emailed all the paperwork. But Strange said I could trust Jean Innocent, and she's vouched for Hathaway. Anyway, beggars can't be choosers."

"You're one of the best trainers I've ever known, Robbie. You'll be in high demand once word gets around that you're back."

Robbie hummed skeptically. 

"Aye I'm sure. Dropped half me clients with no warning, cocked up a load of basic stuff, then fled the country? They'll be calling to have me sent to the knackers yard, not queuing up to offer me work." 

"You've been missed, while you were away." 

"By who?"

"By me, for starters." 

"Aye, well, you're not a yard owner now, are you?"

"Anyway," Laura said, effectively cutting short the pity party, "Is himself around? I come bearing vaccinations and I'm on a tight schedule."

"In the farmhouse, apparently." Robbie said. 

He freed Rex from the headcollar and left it and the grooming kit outside the stable to put away later, then led the way across the yard towards the house, Dr Hobson keeping pace at his side. 

\--

The side door to the farm house led through a boot room and into the dining kitchen. A warm, airy room, heated by an aga, in front of which lay two dogs, flopped down on the stone flags and enjoying the warmth. Hathaway, hair wet and sticking up, suggesting he'd showered in the intervening time, was standing in the corner, staring forlornly at a cafetiere. He looked up and almost smiled in greeting as Robbie and Laura entered. 

"Good timing, coffee's almost ready." he announced. 

As well as showering, he appeared to have changed. Into a dark blue pair of skinny jeans, and a grey chunky knit jumper. He feet were shoeless, showing off light purple socks. The mud splattered jodhpurs and jacket were each hanging on the back of dining chairs, pulled close to the aga for them to dry. 

They drank coffee companionably for a while, after which Hathaway thrust a set of keys at Robbie. 

“The cottage is just opposite here, by the gate. Keys for the front and back doors. Plus the ones with the green tab are for the back door here and the office”

He gestured at a door on the opposite side of the kitchen. 

"How about you go over, have a look round, get settled in. Then I'll give you the proper tour after Dr Hobson here has finished sticking needles into my horses?" 

"Sounds good to me." Robbie agreed, watching after them as Hathaway shoved his feet into a pair of sturdy boots and followed Laura back outside. 

\---

Hathaway’s benign mood didn’t last long. 

Robbie had carted his bags over to the cottage, had a poke around, and started jotting a list of things he’d need to buy. But he wasn’t someone who dealt well with being idle when he knew other people were working. 

So he had a quick freshen up, stuck the keys and his phone in the pockets of his barbour jacket, donned his yard boots, and went out to find the others. 

Hathaway and Laura were chatting by the latter’s car, as she packed her bag into the boot and shook his hand. 

“All sorted?” Robbie asked amiably.

Hathaway rounded on him, scowl painted across his features. 

"No thanks to you. I nearly broke my neck falling over the pile of crap you left outside Rex's stable!" James snapped. Behind him Laura rolled her eyes at Robbie, confirming his suspicion that this was something of an exaggeration. 

Robbie raised his eyebrows. 

"I can get it all put away now if you like?" he offered mildly. 

James deflated slightly at the non-confrontational response and shook his head. 

"It's fine," he said, "I've done it now." 

They waved Laura off, James jogging over the open and close the gate for her so she didn't need to get out of her car. 

"Right then," he said to Robbie as he strode back over, "Shall I show you around?"

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbie settles in, and begins to try and puzzle out James. Plus there are some new arrivals at the farm.

The first couple of weeks passed faster than Robbie had thought they would. To begin with, working alongside James was stilted and awkward, and James wasn't shy about making it known when Robbie did something differently than James would prefer. Nonetheless, getting used to the routine, getting up to speed with the rhythms of exercising, mucking out, feeding, cleaning. Plus there was the feed merchant, the farrier, deliveries and neighbouring farms and liveries. Robbie had to get used to the new village, to the small co-op, and trips to the bigger supermarket on his days off - borrowing James's Land Rover the first few times until he'd sorted out getting his own car. 

Before he knew it, he was preparing the field shelter and a spare stable for the arrival of his own horse, being flown over from Iceland. Plus, James was on the hunt for a new young horse to train up for eventing, and sending Robbie links to information about breeders, trainers, and young up and coming horses. 

Slowly, day by day, James seemed easier with him. Less on a hair trigger, at least. Robbie had to admit that he still knew very little about his new employer. 

\---

Morse the horse arrived on a Tuesday. 

"He's named for my old mentor," Robbie explained, as he moved around the little Icelandic horse, grooming him. 

Morse tossed his head and snorted in complaint as Robbie shoved at him to move. 

"Taught me everything I know about horses. Human Morse, I mean. Kept me in a job when the kids were small, and then I inherited all his clients when he died."

James was leaning over the stable door watching Robbie and Morse together, reaching out to pet the chestnut nose when Morse snuffled at him inquisitively.

"The stud farm I was at in Iceland had bought him to breed from." Robbie continued. "They wanted to invest in their own stallion rather than hiring ones from other farms. But it turned out he wasn't suited to it."

"Not a fan of the mares?" James asked. 

"More like they weren't a fan of him. He's a stubborn, bad-tempered thing most of the time. Always very attentive when they introduced him to the mares, very keen to strut his stuff, as it were. But they didn't much like him. They got a couple of foals from him the first year, but they had just replaced him when I arrived. Had him gelded and put out to grass. They were looking for a buyer, but no one wanted him. In the end I took him on."

"And you changed his name to Morse?"

"It suits him. Morse the human was grumpy and didn't get on with other humans much. He loved horses though, had such a kind way with them." 

"What was he called before?" 

"An Icelandic word. _Myndarlegur_. I'm probably mangling the pronunciation. It means handsome, apparently." 

"Well he's certainly that," James stated with affection, looking on at the horse. Robbie glanced over, surprised at the unguarded show of emotion. 

Seeing Robbie’s reaction, James stepped back, clearing his throat. 

“I’ll let you get him settled. Let me know of there’s anything you need.” 

\---

But later, as Robbie moved around the yard sorting the nighttime routine for the horses, he noticed James watching Morse. The little pony had been moved out into the field, where he would live most of the year, and was happily wandering and grazing. James watched him, leaning against the fence with one foot up on the bottom rail. A fond smile on his face. James's aging black labrador, Madge, lay panting next to him. Robbie couldn't see Gibson, the terrier cross, but knew he wouldn't be far away.

That evening, Robbie dropped into the farmhouse, bringing a to-do list from the groom's office to add to the main wall calender in the proper office. James was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a plate of cottage pie, with the dogs at his feet. 

"Only me," Robbie announced himself, wafting the paper list in partial explanation for his presence on his way through to the office. 

"You know when you were in Iceland?" James called after him. 

Robbie leaned back out of the the office doorway, and raised an eyebrow to indicate that James should continue. 

"How involved in the breeding programme were you?"

"Fairly. I mean, I didn't do the strategy or planning. But everyone was involved in the nitty gritty to some extent. Why?"

"Hmm? Oh. Just wondering." James started to poke at his phone, not meeting Robbie's eye. "Maybe we could breed here one day, is all."

"Right." Robbie said, waiting a moment to see if James would add anything else. When nothing else was forthcoming, he ducked back into the office to get on with his task. 

\---

A few days later, Robbie got yet another glimpse into Hathaway's softer side, underneath his general default irritability.

"Robbie, can you come here a sec?" James called, reappearing in the barn doorway and looking worried. 

"What's up?" Robbie asked, jogging over. 

James said nothing, but went back into the barn, Robbie following on. He stopped at the stack of straw bales in the corner. There was a narrow space between the side of the storage cabinet and the edge of the stack of straw. And on top of that storage cabinet had been a couple of old rugs, waiting to be repaired. But they had either fallen or been pushed to the floor, and now filled the space between the cabinet and the straw. They were making a warm, cosy nest for what appeared to be a small tabby cat, and her four brand new kittens. 

"Look at them," James breathed. 

"Kittens." Robbie stated, obviously. 

"Tiny kittens," James whispered. 

The little kittens, two black and white and two tabby like their mum, were all feeding. They were lined up at their mother's stomach, suckling happily away. She was purring loudly in the space, but eyed James and Robbie warily. 

"I did wonder where she'd gone." James said after watching the kittens feeding for a while. 

"Hmm?" Robbie asked. 

"The cat. She was around a lot last summer and in the autumn. I hadn't seen her for weeks. I thought maybe she'd found someone to take her in for the winter. Or, well, that she'd not survived it." 

"C'mon, let's leave her to it." Robbie said, as the cat continued to glare at them. 

"Should I call Dr Hobson?" James asked, digging in his jeans for his phone. "I should call her." 

"How about for now, we get some cat food and a water bowl set up for Mum, and then you can maybe call Laura in a while. But there's no need to wake her up on her day off, for a cat and some kittens who look healthy enough and are happily feeding." 

James agreed, albeit with obvious reluctance. He snapped a quick photo of the nursing kittens with his phone before following Robbie back to the farmhouse, making sure to swing the barn door closed to keep the dogs well out of the way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Non-explicit homophobic comments feature briefly.

Towards the end of his first month in the job, Robbie suggested that they stroll down to the pub in the village for a pint and a bite to eat. 

"It's a while since I was here last," Robbie told James, "But they used to do a mean shepherd's pie back in the day." 

James hesitated, but accepted. 

It was a lovely Spring evening, and they had taken their time getting to the village, strolling across the fields behind the main farmhouse and cutting down onto the public footpath by the river to avoid having to walk along the main road. The dogs happily gambolling around, sniffing at smells and peeing on fences during the walk. 

It was just past seven o'clock as they arrived, James ordering two pints at the bar while Robbie snagged a couple of menus and secured them a table in the corner. Madge happily followed Robbie to the table, while Gibson refused to leave James's side. 

Some of the locals were propping up the bar. Robbie didn't know them personally, but he recognised the type. Farm hands or labourers probably. He noticed them eyeballing James, one saying something to his mate and then both of them laughing. They were too far away for Robbie to hear what they'd said but it seemed James had. Or at least had heard enough in the tone to realise that the laughter was directed at him. While he'd sauntered into the pub relaxed from their stroll, he'd now gone tense, hands gripping the brass rail that ran along the edge of the bar. His responses to the barman as he handed over his money and took the change were obviously curt. 

"Alright?" Robbie asked, after he'd murmured his thanks and taken the first sip of his pint. He tilted his head marginally to indicate the two men at the bar. 

"Fine," James answered with a quick half smile, which didn't reach his eyes. He took a sip of his own beer then quickly moved the conversation on to their training plans to get Rex and Zara ready for their first competition of the year in just a couple of weeks time. 

\---

They'd chatted amiably through dinner, and Robbie was sipping at his third beer while James nursed a whisky when the two young guys approached their table. 

"This looks cosy," the taller one commented, looming over them. His shorter friend snagged a stool from the next table and sat down by them, grinning in an unfriendly manner. 

Recognising an attempt to intimidate him, Robbie sat back and smiled blandly, all open body language and bumbling geordie persona. 

"I'm Robbie Lewis," he said, holding out his hand to shake, "and you are?" 

"I'm Paul, this is Art," the seated man, Paul, said. Neither accepted the offer to shake hands, but Robbie didn't let it phase him, dropping his hand to pick up his pint glass instead. 

James was silent and still, but Robbie couldn't catch the expression on his face from this angle. 

"What can we do for you gentleman?" Robbie continued, still refusing to acknowledge their obvious malice. 

"Just wondering if you're having a nice time," Art said, with an unpleasant grin. "With this oddball here." he nodded towards James, who was now staring down at his glass, resolutely refusing to engage. 

"Yep - good food here, and the beer's great." Robbie said, benignly. These two clearly had some beef with James. Under the table, Madge let out a low growl. 

"He's an odd duck you know," Paul added. "Bit of a weirdo. A queer one, as my granny used to say." he kept grinning as he talked, Art letting out a giggle at the word 'queer'. 

Some sort of homophobic dig? Robbie wondered. Well, Laura had hinted that James might be a bit that way. Whether it was true, or just these two slack jawed idiots trying to look for a weak spot, Robbie didn't really care. He knew bullying when he saw it, and he wouldn't put up with it. 

"Well we're having a lovely evening," Robbie said, still smiling. "Or we were." he dropped the smile, sat up and fixed them each with a glare, "So how about the two of you scuttle off, and go bother someone else for a while." 

Luckily, they left without a fuss, still laughing together, making their way out of the pub. Belatedly Robbie noticed that the barman had been keeping a close eye on the confrontation as well. He nodded a quick thanks to the man, then turned back to James. 

"Alright?" Robbie asked quietly. James gave a half nod - really just a duck of his chin. He wouldn't meet Robbie's eye, but he dropped a hand down to pet both dogs for comfort. "Want another drink?" Robbie asked, not wanting to dwell on the unpleasantness. 

James glanced up and briefly met Robbie's eye before looking down again. 

"No, I'm ok." he swigged the last of his whisky to drain the glass, grimacing slightly at the large mouthful, "let's head back." 

Robbie nodded, finishing off his own drink, and standing to put his coat on. 

After they'd crossed the road and joined the riverside path again, James paused to light a cigarette. Robbie waited patiently for him. He didn't make further conversation, even as they started walking again. James was clearly troubled by the encounter in the pub. 

"You shouldn't let them get to you," Robbie offered as they climbed over a stile, leaving the river and entering a field. 

James glanced sideways at him. 

"Aren't you going to ask what they were talking about?" James asked. 

"Nope." Robbie said firmly. "People like that are usually talking out of their arses. Not worth my attention, quite frankly." 

"You really don't want to know?" James asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically. 

"If there's anything you want to talk to me about, then I'm always happy to lend a friendly ear."

"I just don't understand everyone's obsession with labels," James snapped, after a pause. 

"Okay," Robbie said, mildly. "No one is requiring you to label yourself. I just wondered if there was some issue there. About why it is those idiots felt the need to single you out. Anything I might need to know about. As your colleague and friend."

James glanced at Robbie again. His shoulders were slumped in defeat as he trudged up the track towards the farmhouse in the distance. 

"We have mutual friends. Or, had them, I guess. Someone I was at school with, and his mates. I was a self-righteous prick about some things. Now none of that set like me much." James shrugged, and fumbled in his pockets for another cigarette, lighting this one from the glowing embers of the first. 

They walked along in silence for a while, enjoying the spring evening. Robbie worked his thoughts around in his brain, keen to make sure that James knew there was not issue here for him, but worried that he would make things more strained between them when James was so obviously unwilling to talk about the topic. 

"I would understand, y'know. If there was something they were getting at." Robbie finally said. 

James glanced over at him, without breaking his stride. 

"Oh?" 

"I mean. It'd be a bit hypocritical of me, like. If I was going around being homophobic or whatever." he paused, trying to work out if James was following his meaning, reluctant to spell it out. He wasn't exactly comfortable talking about his emotions either. 

"I know I was happily married for years. But... I was quite open-minded in my youth." 

That did stop James in his tracks, albeit only briefly. 

"Right." James acknowledged. He whistled for Madge to come back, as he'd gone exploring a hedgerow.

They otherwise both remained silent until they said their goodnights back at the farm. 

\---


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James has the flu...

It was the coughing that first alerted Robbie that something was wrong.

His day off meant he could have a lie in, though he was awake as normal as the sun was coming up over the orchard behind his cottage, shining in through the gaps in his curtains. He had plans to have lunch with Laura Hobson later - her own day off coinciding with his for once. So he took his time pottering around having breakfast and showering. But he was still at a bit of a loose end with a whole morning to fill. He wandered out into the yard to see if James was managing alright and if he could make himself useful at all. 

The dogs were pottering around, sniffing things and chasing each other in an amicable manner. The wheelbarrow was outside Rex's open door, the horse in question presumably out in the field already. 

All that was normal. But the hacking cough, interspersed with a rattling wheeze was out of place, and rather worrying. 

Robbie stuck his head around the stable doorway and watched for a moment. James was braced against the stable wall with one hand, the other pressed to his sternum. The fork he'd been using abandoned by his feet on the floor. 

"Alright there?" Robbie asked, a note of concern in his voice. 

James, still fighting to catch his breath, turned and slumped back against the wall. He managed a weak nod in response. 

"You not feeling well?" Robbie added. He noted the pale, clammy look to James' face, the dark shadows under his eyes. 

"Just a bit of a cold," James croaked. 

Robbie frowned and went over to him, reaching a hand to rest against James' forehead. 

"You're burning up, lad." Robbie informed him. "Have you taken anything for the fever?" 

James managed to shake his head, and tried to fend off Robbie's concerned attention. 

"C'mon, let's get you back into the house. You need some paracetamol and to go back to bed. I'll sort all this, don't worry."

"No, no, I'm fine," James insisted, "You've got plans with Laura, you don't want to stand her up."

"Never mind all that, now, come on."

That Robbie managed to manhandle James back to the house with minimum fuss was testament to how weak the latter was feeling. The dogs, sensing something was up, came snuffling around and joined them back in the kitchen. 

A quick shuffle through the cupboards and Robbie located a slightly battered looking box with two paracetamol pills left in the blister pack. He got James to take them and sent him upstairs while he busied himself making tea, pulling out his phone to call Laura and cancel their lunch. 

\---

James perched on the edge of the bath in the ensuite when Robbie found his way to the bedroom, carrying a glass of water, a mug of tea and a packet of tissues he'd found in a kitchen drawer. 

"Right, into bed with you," Robbie ordered. 

"Don't fucking patronise me," James croaked at him, even as he complied and hauled himself upright, shuffling on weak legs over to the bed. 

"If you look after yourself like a normal human, then I won't have to," Robbie pointed out. 

"I could fire you, you know." James told him. His annoyed glare was rather spoiled by just how ill he looked. 

"Oh, you're firing me, are you? Does that mean you're going to be looking after the horses for the next few days? Taking delivery of your new gelding, and getting him settled in? Unloading the haylage and straw deliveries? Calling those people back about the kittens?"

James flopped down to sit on the edge of the bed, his shoulders heaving as he struggled against the continued nausea. 

"Oh, fuck off." he grumbled, weakly. 

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Robbie told him. "You can stay here and feel sorry for yourself, and I'll go and get on with it on one condition: you take the paracetamol, you lie in bed, and you rest. We can discuss my ongoing employment here once you're feeling better, ok?"

James hung his head in a vague facsimile of a nod. Robbie accepted that this was the best he was likely to get right now, and stalked off back down the stairs. He called the dogs to him as he crossed through the kitchen, taking them out into the yard to make sure they got some fresh air an exercise, as they would if James had been feeling up to working today. 

He grumbled away to himself as he worked, getting the stables cleaned, making up feeds for when the horses came in from the field, and generally getting the yard shipshape. He was in the barn stuffing haynets when he heard the sound of a car arriving. Worried that it might be one of the deliveries arriving early, he hurried outside, only to find Laura Hobson parking her car instead. 

"Laura! What are you doing here?"

"Well I knew you'd be busy, so I thought I would do a supply run for our patient." she held a carrier bag aloft in demonstration. "I imagine he's not too happy at being laid up?" she asked, nodding for him to precede her into the farmhouse. 

Robbie busied himself making coffee while Laura unpacked her haul onto the scrubbed wooden table, lining up tins of soup, boxes of cold medicine and painkillers, and finally a twin pack of Kleenex.

"My patented cold and flu survival kit." she informed Robbie, as he poked at the various items. "Heinz tomato soup, over the counter strength decongestant, tissues for all the snot, and about a million hours of sleep. I also highly recommend plenty of water and the liberal application of tea at every opportunity, but I've seen how the two of you stockpile tea and coffee like you're preparing for a nuclear winter." 

The dogs had followed them inside, and Gibson had retreated to his dog bed after a drink of water. Madge, however was sitting gazing at the closed door to the rest of the house, and he heaved a great doggy sigh and sat down heavily. 

"The dogs know something's up," Robbie elaborated. "But they're not allowed upstairs." 

"And you are?" Laura teased. 

"Well, not usually." Robbie admitted. "He's told me to eff-off more times than I care to count already today, and apparently I'm fired." 

"And yet you're still here?"

"Well, chances are he won't even remember firing me. I figured I may as well stick around until he can come up with a reason for my dismissal beyond trying to make sure he doesn't die of the flu."

"Seems reasonable." Laura agreed. "Now is there anything in this house that we can eat for lunch? I didn't think to buy anything for those of us who aren't plague-ridden."

\---

The flu lasted nearly a week, though after the first couple of days James' fever was less aggressive, and he was merely weak and tired and feeling utterly wiped out. 

He reluctantly tolerated Robbie's gruff care, accepting medicine, tea, and cold cloths for his forehead. He was barely able to eat, throwing up if he tried much more than a few sips of soup. Robbie worked around this by adding extra milk and sugar to the tea, and buying in some full-sugar Sprite, which he stirred to flatten before serving it to James at room temperature. 

Robbie wasn't naturally effusive in his care, and he knew James hated feeling weak and dependent. He kept their interactions brief and businesslike to compensate. Nonetheless, he was growing to like his surly employer. Despite the grumpy moods, James was proving himself to be capable of kindness and gentleness. His way with the animals was a sight to behold. And when the biting sarcasm was directed at some worthy source, Robbie realised that James was hilarious. Really, the poor lad just seemed lonely. Not enough care and attention had been bestowed on him, clearly. To the point where he was barely able to tolerate it even now, when he was bedridden with the flu. 

By Thursday, six days after he was first laid up, James made it all the way downstairs. 

It was the music that Robbie heard first, and he let himself quietly into the kitchen. It was getting late, but he needed to let the dogs out for a last toilet break of the day. As he pulled off his yard boots and propped them by the door, he realised that the quiet guitar music he could hear was coming from the living room, not from upstairs, meaning James must have made it out of bed. Also, he realised, at it abruptly stopped and then restarted, it wasn't a recording at all. 

He crossed the kitchen, and instead of taking his usual left turn for the stairs, he pushed open the door in front of him. 

Robbie had never been into the living room before. In fact, until James had succumbed to the flu, he'd never been beyond the kitchen. The room was on the small side, with deep alcoved windows and exposed timber beams across the ceiling. One end wall was comprised entirely of bookcases, while the opposite side had a roaring fire going in the stone fireplace. 

None of this was what caught his attention though. 

Sprawled on a battered old sofa under the window, James was playing an acoustic guitar. His hands worked in sync together to produce a quiet melody. His skin was washed golden, the firelight and table lamps casting a dim glow that hid the haggard look his face had taken on through this illness. His hair slicked back, away from his face. And by the look of the frayed sleeve, and the top of a design just visible past the guitar, it seemed James was once again wearing a t shirt that Robbie had taken an instant dislike to: its cartoon horse print and large lettering bore the motto _Save a Horse; Ride a Cowboy!_

Frankly the thing was hideous, plus its colours were faded, and it was going into holes. But James had been insistent that it was the only thing he was possibly able to wear while he was ill. Robbie had already run it through the quick wash setting and tumble dried it twice this week, because James had refused to wear anything else, causing Robbie to idly speculate whether he actually owned any other t shirts. 

The dogs were flopped down on the floor of the room, Madge basking in front of the fire, and Gibson in his usual spot right at James' feet. All three of them turned their heads to look at Robbie as he pushed the door open. James' face was relaxed but expressionless as he watched Robbie for a moment, still playing. As he came to the end of the phrase he was playing, he stopped, hands stilling and muffling the last resonance from the strings. 

He smiled a small smile at Robbie. 

"Evening," James said, a slight hoarseness still evident.

"That was beautiful. I didn't know you played," Robbie said. Then squeezed his eyes shut briefling, mentally cursing himself. "Sorry," he continued. "To interrupt, I mean. I just came to take the dogs out for their last walk." 

"I'll join you," James said, placing the guitar next to him on the sofa and pushing himself to his feet. "I'm dying for a smoke." 

Robbie raised an eyebrow, "Literally dying, if you come down with pneumonia off the back of this," he cautioned. 

James ignored him, and busied himself collecting a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from a kitchen drawer, and pulling on his wellies and a wax jacket. He whistled the dogs to heel, even though both were already following his movements closely. 

Fully attired, they strolled out to the yard, James lighting up as soon as the kitchen door was closed behind them. 

"God," he muttered, causing Robbie to turn back to look at him. 

James had leaned back on the wall of the farmhouse and was slowly sinking down to the floor. Robbie was a few metres away, having intended to follow the dogs as they ran around the yard, but he hurried back over. 

"James?" he asked, unsure. 

James was now sitting on the ground, knees up in front of him, head tipped back and smiling. His eyes were closed but he opened them to look at Robbie. 

"First hit of nicotine," he said by way of explanation. "Goes straight to my knees." 

He took another slow drag, inhaling with a slight cough, and slowly blowing the stream of smoke out again after a moment. 

"You forget," James continued, "when you smoke all the time. You forget this feeling. But it makes it worth taking a break for." he grinned at Robbie, open and unguardedly happy. 

Robbie felt his insides squirming in response, and with a jolt he realised: that unsettled feeling he'd had from the moment he caught sight of James playing his guitar; the same fluttering nervous feeling he had now at the look of beatification on James face, the visible tendon down his neck, where his head was tipped back against the wall… 

And damn it all, if Robbie Lewis, 55 year old widower, wasn't lusting after his employer: young enough to be his son, and attractive enough to be way out of his league. 

Well, hell.

**Author's Note:**

> There are two mood boards to go with this story,  
> https://mcgstarroar.tumblr.com/post/183341077952/equine-nine-moodboard-1-for-my-au-fic-on-ao3  
> https://mcgstarroar.tumblr.com/post/183341161162/equine-nine-moodboard-2-for-my-au-horse-themed


End file.
